The Sincerity Of Sinners
by GiveItToMeSlowly
Summary: Laura Avery is free at heart, translating into a decidedly wild demeanor (much to her strict mother's chagrin). In an effort to save her spirit from being broken by the constraints of stuffy Old World society forced upon her by her mother, Laura finds herself and her family inadvertently tangled in the complicated endeavors of a dangerous man cloaked in white. Connor/OC
1. Prologue

Lust.

A "deadly sin" as it was most often regarded as. In years passed, Laura's mind wandered with thought concerning the six other cardinal sins, but never lust. Her youth prevented her from wrapping her mind around a concept she was allowed to know of but not allowed to fully understand.

Pride, gluttony, avarice, envy, wrath, and sloth. You name it, Laura's overbearing mother had accused her of it. These supposedly sinful behaviors were typically borne of the most innocent actions in childhood: Coveting a girl who had a more extensive collection of hair ribbons than you, throwing a tantrum as children will expectedly do, and multiple other sins of excess continued.

Laura was convinced at a young age that her mother had nothing to lose given her overly critical demeanor towards her; They were blood, mother and daughter, and no matter what her mother said or how she acted their ties could never be severed. Laura depended upon her and that would not change.

Jane Avery (née Clark) was a woman with a spirit of iron; Twice widowed, at one point in time living on the streets of Boston shortly after the death of her first husband, selling her body to provide for her infant daughter. She knew what it was to sit on the cold pavement in the night, damp and hungry and cradling a mewling bundle who was even hungrier.

Jane's second marriage was a popular customer. Laura was barely four, but was cognitive enough to recognize this man had no fatherly relations with her. His name was simply John, and he was big and loud and often smelled unpleasant. Six months after their modest nuptials, Jane was pregnant and John was dead from small pox.

To say Jane had lived a tumultuous life for some time was likely an understatement. Yet, she was a woman of God in all of her dark years. She had hardened, but (somehow) her faith grew stronger still. She was a woman of God when she was given a hemophiliac son in July of 1765 and she remained a woman of God until the day she died.

Faith was something Jane drilled into Laura's very being, often leading Laura to endure much internal conflict. Laura couldn't complain though; She realized her mother's struggles and her need for solace. God couldn't talk back to you in Jane's eyes. Many believed He did, but as far as Jane was concerned she couldn't hear any sort of voice in her head and she liked it that way. One-sided conversations always did appeal to her.

Jane guided her children using the Fear of God. End of summer, 1767: Laura was six and her sickly son, Paul, had just turned two. Jane buttoned her blouse all the way to her throat and vowed to never walk the streets at night again. She took her children to the chapel down the street to have them baptized and proceeded to read them passages from the bible every night.

By September, Jane had taken up work as a hat maker at her cousin's millinery shop in town. If it had not been for her work, Jane would have gathered her family and fled Boston altogether. Instead, she fixed up a tidy household on the outskirts of the city, barely bordering on where the frontier began. Getting to work may have been a bit of a hassle in the winter, but the real worth was held in the assurance of her children's general well-being devoid of city living.

Laura enjoyed this in-between life; At least, that's how she thought of it whilst growing up with the constant contradiction of bustling city streets and the wildness of the forest which was only a mile or two from her backyard. As Paul grew older Jane would often take him to work with her in order to keep track of him in his condition; He was a pale little thing that didn't speak much.

Jane was especially protective of him. In a way, Laura resented her mother's indulgence in the weak boy, yet she understood her need to coddle him. Paul couldn't talk back, just like God.

Laura's mother reveled in this. Jane was a woman in control, as she had been for the majority of her life. The old saying did ring true as far as Laura was concerned: You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

In this, Laura understood her mother's opposition to her existence; Defiance was as much a deadly sin as any of the original seven. Laura and Jane were far too much alike, far too stubborn to stand being in the same room with each other for an extended period of time. Still, by the end of the day every day Jane was sitting in Laura's room, bible in hand, reading on monotonously. It never failed.

Laura grew lonely, especially in the winter. Jane would often have to spend nights in Boston with Paul, the trek back home too treacherous for fragile Paul to endure in the bitter cold and blinding flurries of snow.

Laura felt that at the core of everything the whole message was painfully simple: As long as she kept her legs closed till marriage and obeyed her mother consistently enough to where things didn't get out of hand, Laura's mother would be satisfied (and maybe not pester her to death). But in the summer, the latter would become more difficult to abide by; Laura was wild in the summer. The forest was her home. The trees and birds her musical friends, the swishing of the leaves and sing song tunes produced from high above her led her to dance further into the wilderness. Many days Laura would prance back onto the property just as dusk was beginning to fall, flowers woven in her hair and mud slinging on her skirts. Jane was annoyed, to say the very least.

In this, Jane felt threatened by the possible replication of her own youth as she observed Laura's development. The girl's wild heart had not materialized out of nowhere; Jane lived fast. Once upon a time, Jane had emotions that directed her course as sporadically as a ship in full sail left to its own devices. She married young, blinded by love and promise of a life empty of the constraints a young Englishwoman born and bred in the aristocracy of the colonies was expected to adhere to. Having cut ties with her immediate family and marrying a husband orphaned at a young age, Jane may have been "free," but with no money to make do with it seemed to be all in vain. Jane would do anything to ensure Laura not suffer the same fate, no matter how disagreeable she came off to her daughter.

As the years accumulated, Jane formed a plan of action to curb her daughter's path once she came of age. To state it simply: Laura was to become a perfect lady, raised as so as much as was possible given the family's limited financial situation. No tea or dance lessons, of course; That was something Jane would be tasked to instill manually to the best of her ability. Self-control, a virtue made of steel, manners and conversation of every proper kind honed into the sharpest delicacy you ever did see. God was going to be the governor of Laura's very being. A good Christian woman, A lady, the things Jane let go. The existence she could have maintained. The whore's life she could have escaped.

A person with half a brain could easily see how Jane was fixing to live vicariously through her daughter; Though, she was only fixing at this point.

Laura was not a young woman easily swayed.


	2. Manners

March, 1776

...

Breakfast, and there's snow on the ground.

I'm not exactly sure why I find this fact perplexing. The kitchen is too warm and the pot of tea I'm holding is too hot. Already, today is filled with "too's" of something. I don't like that, so I peel off my shawl and wait.

"You'll put that shawl on immediately, young lady." Mother is awake and in the doorway. Nevermind that we are shut up indoors, mother is insistent upon attire closed up enough to befit a nun. Here she stands before me, the lace of her collar brushing her jawline, cuffs of her dress tightly buttoned around her wrists (more than likely cutting off her circulation). I can see the beads of sweat forming on her veined forehead. She never lets herself be relieved in the slightest.

In return, I drape the shawl gingerly over my shoulders and turn towards the window. It's early and Paul doesn't need to awaken to the petulant screeches of the two most stubborn women in all the colonies for once.

I feel her eyes burning into me, so I turn. Mother glides soundlessly to the table in the opposite corner of the room. Three chairs, she chooses the one facing my direction. She sits straight as a plank, her spine having gained an unnatural aversion to the back of the chair. She pulls her worn bible out of the pocket of her skirt and places it to her right, her icy eyes staring at me, through me, expectantly.

Nevermind that it's my birthday. I am expected to serve her as if she is a guest whom I am barely acquainted with. Everything is practice, yet as far as my mother has let on I am far from making perfect. I take the handle of the boiling pot of tea in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other, stepping lightly towards the table. I set the saucer and cup down robotically, my movements precise and swift. I lack grace, she says, but grace is produced from adoration. I do not adore these actions so thick with conformity.

As I lift the pot and begin to pour, Mother presses a small box onto the surface of the table, holding it there as if it was going to up and evaporate into the air without her pressure.

"Happy birthday," She is stiff, but her voice is airy as if her mind is elsewhere. I'm distracted until she sounds a noise of annoyance in her throat, alerting me that the tea is about to overflow in her cup.

I pull back quickly, turning and striding to the counter to clean up. Before I can thank her, or even turn around for that matter, Mother clears her throat and begins:

"You're fifteen years old as of today, obviously closer to womanhood than before. Teetering on childhood and adulthood, really; A difficult age to be." I could tell she was steering her conversational course towards something she was uncomfortable speaking about. "By next spring you will be eligible to officially begin... courting." Her steady stream of words faltered slightly. In all honesty, I had seen this coming. Hearing the words actually grace my mother's lips were what held the shock value.

She continued, "As much as I digress, it is a natural function in life... Laura, now more than ever you must be aware of the way you carry yourself. People will begin to notice you, and rightfully so. You are a pretty girl. But... You cannot... Blast, how must I say this... You cannot _give_ yourself to the first lad who-"

"_Oh_, mother no, I-" I begin almost frantically. The conversation had taken a turn unbelievably quickly. This was not something I wanted to discuss in the slightest, the awkwardness of it was suffocating. She cut me off.

"Laura Grace Avery, you are not to interrupt me. This is very serious. You know how much I loathe taking you into the city, but... I see no other options to help, ahem, _expose_ you to your prospective opportunities. By my standards, courting is not to officially begin until you are of sixteen years, but as I have said you must have some experience in social life. Our living situation is considered... _Distant_ to others. Can't have those fine suitors thinking they're going after a simple country bumpkin, can we?" She chuckled lightly, then caught herself and paused. "Do you follow, dear?" Everything my mother said was rattling in my brain as I stared at the minuscule crack in the wall above where she sat. I managed to nod.

"... Good." Mother looked somewhat incredulous (I'm sure she wondered why I was being as agreeable as I was) as she rose from her seat and glided out of the room just as swiftly as she had entered. After she left, nothing lingered. Not even her words. No, those were imprinted solely in my mind. Mother had a talent of not leaving anything hanging in the air, her convictions so poignant they were engraved into your very being.

I had almost completely forgotten the package on the counter. As I gathered it in my hand, the paper crinkled in my hand. Upon inspection, I noticed it was hastily wrapped. I took a seat at the table and began to unravel the twine.

The small box contained a lovely rosary, by far the finest gift mother had ever bestowed upon me. I was not surprised by its religious connotation. That was just mother's demeanor; It was undoubtedly her way of symbolizing my virtue and its importance in the coming years, yet I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable still. Something so deeply personal coupled with the unfaltering gaze of my mother's harsh eyes...

If anything, my craving for freedom had become all the more desperate.

...

Morning again.

Its painfully early and everything in my line of vision is watery around the edges. Mother has bypassed her usual stance in the doorway and has gone straight to pulling me out of bed. Groggily, I inquire as to what is going on.

"You're coming to work in the city with me today. Paul, too." I knew this was coming, but not this soon. Mother is wrapped up in her nightgown and robe, hair still damp from bathing. She begins to warm that same bath for me in front of the fireplace with fresh water.

After having scrubbed myself (at mother's insistence) to the point of immaculacy, I begin to dress in the outfit she has laid out for me. Before I can get the dress up and over my head, mother appears and begins yanking on my stays, instructing me to hold onto a bed post and brace myself. She pulls violently on the stays, lacing my corset tighter than I had ever had it before. My breasts are lifted significantly and my waist pinched in to obscure measurements. I feel as if my lungs are about to shatter.

"Too tight. Mother, please," My ribs are constricted so badly that I feel faint.

"You'll get used to it." Mother's tone is unwavering and I realize if I choose to battle her it is a fight I will not win. She takes the dress on the bed and slips it over my form, buttoning up the back and adjusting the collar to a modest height against my chest. Mother leads me into her room and seats me at her vanity, proceeding to curl my hair.

"There," She motions to the little bottles and ceramic boxes on the vanity. "Powder your face a bit, then add rouge to your cheeks. Have a light hand during application, I'll not have you looking like a harlot." I do as she asks wordlessly. After she finishes curling my hair, she braids and twists it into a low bun, leaving curled tendrils in front to frame the sides of my face. Upon inspection, mother is satisfied with my makeup and reaches over me to grab a tiny bottle of perfume.

Mother unscrews the bottle and dabs behind her ears, at the base of her throat and on the inside of each wrist. She motions for me to take the bottle and watches as I follow her actions meticulously.

"Your manner must be light as a feather in whatever you do. Never forget that." In an effort to make an example, mother softly drifts to the living room. Her footsteps are small and noiseless, giving her the slight effect of fluttering when she moves. Paul is there looking out the window, bundled in two thick coats and a blanket. Waiting for us. I had no desire to keep up with these seemingly meaningless lessons any longer.

Mother shrugs on her coat, posture still stiff as ever, wraps a scarf around her neck and daintily plucks her coin purse up from the side table. I follow suit, layering on clothes in preparation for the bitter cold. I reach for my hat but mother intercedes.

"Your hair will get mussed." Mother never exclusively states against your actions. Her tone does all the communicating.

"Well, I doubt I'll be too attractive with my ears having frozen off in comparison to my hair being a little out of order," I mutter. Mother ignores me, of course, and opens the door. In seconds, the three of us are engulfed in winter's frigid embrace.

...

I do not like walking.

I do not like the cold.

Somehow mother has managed to combine two of the things I loathe most and have them materialize. I am not used to this walking distance; If I had ever needed to run into the city on an errand before or to fetch mother, I had done so on horseback. Horses were the only thing we had of note, really; Two fine mares (a pity gift from a distant relative that mother was still on fair terms with) housed in a shoddy stable mother had cheaply built when I was still a girl. I still remember the scent of woods and body odor that hung in the air when I poked my head in to see the work men eating lunch around the kitchen table all those years ago.

By the time we arrive in the city my toes are numb and the freezing wind is nipping relentlessly at the back of my exposed neck. My mood is decidedly ill at the moment, and holding my tongue has neared impossibility.

"Why couldn't we have gone on horseback? Or taken a carriage? This method is time-consuming and ridiculous given our resources." I was whining now. Mother's eyes narrowed into slits.

"How do you think your brother would fare on a horse? Or being jerked all about in a wobbly carriage? It's not safe for his condition." She was gripping Paul's hand firmly, her eyes glazed with contempt at the idea that I put Paul's delicate health in jeopardy for something as petty as fast travel.

At this, I stay quiet. We continue through the streets to the hole-in-the-wall millinery shop and enter. The atmosphere is inviting, although there is but one customer in the store: An elderly woman, milling about whilst taking in the fine hats almost nostalgically. A woman with raven black hair emerges from behind the counter, tall and straight-of-back. She is statuesque, skin as pale as the snow outside, with an air of confidence and command. The woman folds her hands behind her back and approaches the old woman, questioning as to if the woman needed any assistance. The elderly woman declined, shortly thereafter exiting the store. Mother then steps toward the black-haired woman, hand on the small of my back to guide me in the same direction.

"Catherine, I'm sure you remember my daughter, Laura." I curtsy briskly to mother's introduction, my ribs still aching due to the horrifying constriction of the corset. Bending of any sort from my chest to hips is proven to be an impossible task.

"Ah, yes, I haven't seen her since she was just a girl. Almost all grown now. How old are you, Laura?"

"Fifteen, ma'am." I state. Catherine chuckles a bit.

"Oh, my dear! No need to address me as such, you'll make me feel as ancient as that customer from earlier," She grins. "Cate will suffice. We are family after all." Cate may have been my second cousin, but it was true; She was one of the only ties mother had left to her immediate family, not that mother had ever acted upon said connection. I smile back at Cate warmly, who pats my arm.

"This leads me to ask, Jane: Why have you been concealing this precious thing for years? She's by far the loveliest thing in Boston." Cate's flattery causes my cheeks to redden and my eyes to move to the floor.

"I felt waiting until now was... Most appropriate." Mother taps me on the back sharply, signaling for me to lift my head and keep my back straight.

Cate is still smiling. All four of us move behind the counter and into the back room of the store where the work is done. Aside from being a competent and successful milliner, Cate's business was in a state of decline; The war had taken its toll, no doubt, and not many people had the means to shop for luxury items and fanciful clothing nowadays. This led Cate to have her shop double as a tailor's workshop, often taking in the tattered robes of soldiers to mend. It was a good source of revenue, but caused tension between employees and the redcoats roaming the streets.

When it came down to it, mother was ultimately uncaring of the politics surrounding the war. She still drank her tea every morning (and was often ridiculed for it by neighbors, and even Cate at times). So long as no one chose to wage war in her front yard, she was fine on her little plot of secluded land.

In the city, however, it was a different story; Cate was a die-hard patriot after all, and had no qualms letting the world know her stance. Often times redcoat troops would wander into her store. Whether their intentions were malicious or not, Cate would draw out her husband's flintlock pistol from under the counter, place it on top with a loud clank as to alert the troops to its location, and stare them down wordlessly until they left the store.

In the back of the store, scores of women are engrossed in their stitching. Very few are actually working on hats, I observe. There are some piles of men's jackets and breeches around, torn and some even splattered with blood.

Mother gets straight to work: She finds her work desk, grabs an article of clothing, examines the tear, and starts fiddling with her needle and thread. Paul shadows her, taking a seat next to her and pulling out a book to read quietly. He is as white as a ghost, almost non-existent in the deepness of his silence.

I am standing awkwardly, not knowing what to do or where to go; There are no open chairs in the room. I glance at Cate, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks. She grins, amused at my obvious discomfort and motions for me to come with her back into the front of the store.

"You wouldn't mind if I put the sweet thing to work a bit, hmm Jane?" Cate's tone is musical as she drapes her arm around my shoulders.

"Would probably do her some good, truthfully." Mother says pointedly, not looking up from her sewing. Cate chuckles at this. Mother does not.

Cate leads me from behind the counter and over to the front windows. "As you can see, quite a bit of dust has gathered on the shelves. The problem is that no one has the privilege to see this dust; The windows are so frosted over that not a person can even see the displays for that matter! Therefore, my dear, I'm going to fetch you a scraper and a duster so you can put an end to this tragic dilemma. Any questions?" She laughs at herself (something I really enjoy about this woman so far). I shake my head and smile.

I have a feeling I won't mind spending my time here.

...

I dust first due to dread of the cold.

After the shelves are spic and span, I reluctantly trudge outside, scraper in hand.

I figure its best I start in on it without a second thought, not another moment to register the bitter temperature; I've not scraped windows before, but it seemed simple enough. I push the scraper up and down violently, as fast as I can so I can be done with this God-forsaken ice world and retreat back inside to the warmth.

I'm three quarters of the way done when I notice the poster.

Nailed to the right of the windows and in rough shape due to the weather, there it is. It seems innocent enough, perhaps an advertisement for something or other. Still, I look closer.

"Wanted, Dead or Alive"

The print is bold but worn from the damage of wind and snow. No name, just the vivid image of a man. It seemed a great deal of effort was put into portraying him.

Hood pulled up, obscuring his eyes. What part of his face was visible seemed angular, with sharp cheek bones, a strong nose and full lips turned downward into something of a frown. His neck was as thick as a bull's, and despite the picture being black and white, shading was used to emphasize the darkness of his complexion. Perhaps he was an African or a native...? No matter his ethnicity, the man in the portrait was the definition of menacing.

I snap out of my observation, scowling at the poster for distracting me. My fingers are flushed and numb. I rip the sad scrap of paper off the building and stuff it in my coat's pocket, not wanting to litter in front of Cate's store. Didn't seem like it was doing much good in the condition it was in anyway.

I finish scraping and scurry back inside, breathing hot air onto my hands and rubbing them together in an effort to get the feeling back. Cate is behind the register, a large box of fabric scraps of all colors and patterns perched on the counter in front of her. She smirks at my futile attempts at getting warm.

"I do believe you should invest in some gloves, darling!" Cate disappears underneath the counter for a moment, resurfacing with a pair of brown leather gloves in hand. She plops them down next to the box. "I need you to take these out to the alley out back to dump. Too little material for anything useful to be made of it."

She pushes the gloves towards me and I nod graciously. I pull them on (they're a bit big and rather stiff) and proceed to haul the box outside.

Freezing air burns down into my lungs.

The alley is cramped and the slick ground is treacherous in my heeled shoes. I quickly make my way to a set of stacked crates, unsure of what to do with no discernible trash buckets nearby. I dump the rags next to the wooden crates, then turn to begin back inside-

But then, there is a trail.

It begins on the wall, really; Bricks splotched with a wet red substance. I freeze. Of course the first thing to come to mind is "blood." I inch closer to the wall, gingerly swiping a bit of the substance on my fingers for a closer examination. The definitive metallic odor confirms my horrific assumption, but rather than feel fear my mind clouds with an impenetrable fog of curiosity.

To the left, the alleyway branches off into another alley, going deeper up against backdoors of shops and houses and farther from the busy city streets. The trail on the wall quickly disperses but is still evident on the snow-covered ground. Large footprints, most likely a male's, lead deeper into the alley, drips of blood on either side of the prints. By the way the prints seemed to be dragging from one foot to the other, one could conclude that the person was sluggish in their movement. Most likely limping.

Someone was hurt. Curiosity aside, concern begins to grip me. I hurriedly follow the trail, navigating through more branched-off alleyways. Snow is beginning to fall again, dampening my hair and ruining the style. I know mother will be furious upon my return, but I could truly care less. I'd like to think a possibly seriously injured human being is more important than a messy shock of hair and damp petticoats.

I realize I've picked up pace; I'm running. I've hiked my skirts up to an immodest height and I'm overwhelmed with determination to figure this out, this morbid mystery. I'm running, but I question my true motives. I'm running. From my mother? Towards something with purpose? Both?

I don't know. I'm just running.

I skid around a corner into another alleyway, almost losing my balance and toppling over.

A dead end.

A bundle of hay and cloth atop the snow.

_And a man._


	3. Open Wounds

There's something else frozen in this bitterly cold weather besides the ice sickles hanging off shingled roofs: Me.

Needless to say, I haven't a clue what to do; A man, bloodied and beaten, lying in a desolate alleyway in near-freezing temperatures. Surely death has already laid a fatal kiss upon his frigid lips. I tell myself I should go back out to the street and fetch a police man or a soldier to take care of his body, but my morbid curiosity seems to govern my actions. I dare to step closer.

I've never seen a dead body before. Of the few funerals I have attended in my lifetime, the dead were either cremated or it had been a closed casket ceremony. I am not fearful or disgusted though, as I thought I might have been if I had encountered such a sight. As ghastly as it is to admit, I have the urge to examine the body further. A few more steps forward, and I'm towering over his sickening form.

I kneel and begin my macabre physical analysis by placing my hand lightly upon his chest… Only to jump back and let out a little shriek; He's warm!

Upon observation, I notice the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He's struggling, that's for certain. He lays half on his back and half on his right side, clutching a nasty gash along his left ribcage. He's got a death grip on his wound, but he's obviously not awake. I crawl closer to assess the damage.

Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead; This wound is not too fresh, and judging by his state it looks to be getting infected, if not already there. I place the back of my hand on his slick forehead to feel the inevitable: He is burning up.

I still don't know what to do. I feel girlish and stupid. If he wasn't dead before, death would come to claim him soon. Perhaps I should go to the apothecary? Just how much time did this man have anyway? I certainly couldn't haul him out onto the street. He was a beast of a man. My slight 5'3" frame couldn't possibly support someone that was at least a foot taller and a hundred some-odd pounds heavier.

Just then, upon taking in the man's size my gaze deviates towards his face and I let out a gasp of realization. I stuff my hand in my pocket, searching for the poster from earlier. Retrieving it from the abyss that is my pocket, I examine the portrait and compare.

An exact match, down to the scar on his cheek. In the picture his head and eyes are obscured by a hood, not letting on to the generous raven locks underneath. Judging from the braid in his hair and the tribal accessories accenting his attire, I conclude he must be a Native. His rich, coppery complexion and strong features also let on to his respective heritage.

Fun fact: Aside from never seeing a dead a body, I have never seen a Native in real life as well.

I know mother would kill me if I came within a two mile radius of a Native, especially one of their men. Mother hardly trusted the male populace to begin with, let alone those she regarded as "savages." I had heard some gruesome accounts of Natives committing atrocities, scalping settlers and the like. Whenever I chose to wander in the woods during the summer I always tried staying within an imaginary boundary, reminding myself that if I went any further that I'd end up either bear food or a captive-turned-slave in some tribe deep in the wilderness. At least, that's the picture mother had ingrained in my head.

I hate to admit the prevalence of my panic upon the recognition of the man's ethnicity; The evidence of such bigotry permeating my personality appears ugly in retrospect, no matter how many hateful opinions concerning the Natives are shared within my community. At its core, it is wrong. I had always thought I was an open-minded person, willing to give anyone and everyone a chance. Still, these anxieties are a natural reflex, and for that I am ashamed.

Prejudices aside, this man is still a man, and a dying one at that. Knowing now that he is a Native, I don't entertain the idea of dragging him through the streets of Boston to find a doctor anymore. The sight of an Indian man and white woman together would be enough to wound him further, if not incite a small mob. Although he was strapped with weapons from what I could see, he was in no condition to fight.

Disregarding the details and my internal conflict, I refer back to the poster: Essentially, what laid before me was a wanted man. Calculating it all, I am left to wonder what he possibly could have done to get his face plastered all over the city. And then, why am I still here? He must be dangerous, and coupled with the knowledge of his supposedly criminal activities, every logical bone in my body tells me to turn around and walk away.

But I don't.

I _can't._

It doesn't feel right. Nothing about this situation does. First day in the city, and I'm already meddling in affairs I have no business being in. Had I not followed that trail, just gone back inside without a second thought… Maybe I could have made mother happy for once by abiding by her simple wishes. Proud, even, but that was a stretch to even think.

No. I push the thought out of my mind and focus on the task at hand: Dangerously-high-fever man. Bad wound. Basically nowhere to go. I shake my head and take my forehead in my hands, trying to pound a solution out.

I settle on trying to wake him first.

I lean in close to the man, gently placing my hands on his chest and shoulder, shaking softly.

"Sir… Sir, please wake up," I endeavor to make my voice tender and soothing, but a hint of panic is laced unintentionally in the undertone. I try to quell my erratic nerves as the Native man succumbs to a full-body shiver, racking his body with uncontrollable shaking.

I lean closer still, hovering a few inches above his ear to whisper for him to awaken again, my hands still placed firmly on his chest and shoulder.

"Please, sir… You'll die if you don't wake soon,"

The man coughs and sputters, eyes flitting open briefly and then fluttering closed again. His breathing is heavier now, more labored than before. A thought crosses my mind: What if he doesn't speak English? I feel incredibly foolish. I have no knowledge whatsoever of Native language, their dialects, etc. Who knows what he thought, if he had even hear me for that matter?

My grip travels from his shoulder down his arm. I squeeze it, using the tiniest amount of pressure. "Sir, you must-"

I am cut off as he lunges forward, seizing me by the collar of my coat. He removes his hand from his wound and winces slightly as it comes in contact with the open air, using his newly freed arm to push me roughly up against a wall.

I let out a cry as my back barrels into the uneven brick surface. The dismay of the entirety of the situation had led me to forget just how absurdly tight my corset had been laced; Hitting the wall so hard and at such a speed make it feel as if my ribs are breaking.

The man towers over me, standing at the full extent of his height. I grit my teeth together and pray. He is enormous; His arms alone must have been three times the size of mine.

I don't know what to say, to scream, to plead. He's holding me up against the wall for what feels like an eternity. I close my eyes and feel hot streams of liquid crawl down my cheeks. I've heard about things like this, young girls cornered in dark alleys by bad men….

_He's going to rape me,_ my mind chokes out. I let out a small whimper at my internal realization. _He's going to rape me, this brute of a man. He's going to beat me and leave me here to die._

Had I had my mind in order and opened my eyes, I could have seen his struggle to hold me up against the wall. Logic should have told me a person in his state could barely walk, let alone commit such an act. But logic was completely out the window at this point. I had hit full-on panic mode.

"S-sir, no, _please_, I was only trying to h-help…" I am near hysterics.

Then, he releases me.

I slump against the wall, exasperated. Only then do I allow my eyes to open and take in my surroundings.

The man is backing away cautiously; a mixture of confusion and defensiveness is written over his sharp features. His hand has gone back to clutching his side as he supports himself on the wall opposite to me.

"I… I am sorry. You startled me. I did not mean to…" The look in his eyes is a strange breed of horror upon the comprehension that he had done something very wrong. "I never should have…"

"You speak _English?_" I interrupt. My mouth hangs open stupidly.

"I… Well, yes. I do." He looks genuinely perplexed at my inquisition.

My eyes widen a bit, then snap back to normal as I bring myself back to where I need to be. I stand briskly, dusting off my skirt and straightening my aching back.

"No, forgive me. I… I should have not been in such close contact with you. You have obviously been in combat or something of that measure. I should have known you would react with… _Aggression._ Self-defense. I understand. I merely wished to see if you were all right." I take a deep breath and direct my eyes at the ground, embarrassed.

"… It is all right. I am… Fine." He cringes at the last part, tightening the hold on his side.

"You need to go to a physician." I state bluntly.

"I will be fine."

"I disagree."

He shoots me a look of disdain. His face is smeared with dirt and flecks of dried blood.

"I have not the time for that," He sighs, brows knitting together. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if trying to collect himself and make sense of everything.

"I've seen your picture, you know. Your face is all over town. 'Wanted, Dead or Alive.'" I sound more accusatory than what I aim to be. His eyes snap to mine, dark brown and perpetually harsh. You could tell this man has lived a less than comfortable life just by looking at him.

"And?" His tone is defensive.

"I don't know. I don't know anything about you." I try to make it seem like I am not fixing to judge him, but my confrontational intonation earlier already has his trust thinned out to nothing. "I… I would like to help you. You don't seem like you'll be able to fare well on your own at the moment, quite honestly,"

He scoffs at this. "You are not worried that I could be an unsound individual? Seeing as to how I actually am, just so you are aware." An air of self-manufactured superiority tints his words.

"Your reduced state doesn't allow you to hold fast to your statement. If you are truly so dangersome you would have mustered the strength to do something ." Ah, right in the ego.

"I _did_ do something. I then realized I was dealing with a _little girl_ and had pity for you." _Ouch. _His gaze is unflinching and as much as I hate to admit it, I feel intimidated.

My cheeks burn. I try to hold eye contact with him, but his stare is absolutely penetrating. I make my mouth into a straight line, like mother does when she is contemplating something she doesn't like. I fold my hands in front of me and pray for the virtue of patience to grace me.

"I'm not going to say it again: You need medical attention-"

"Oh, I had not noticed," He snorts. I glare at him and continue.

"You clearly cannot go into public, given the fact that you're essentially _a fugitive-"_ I stress his status through clenched teeth, "But I do believe I have someone I can take you to that can help patch you up."

His abysmal eyes are still on me. They soften for the briefest moment, and then harden again.

"How do I know I can trust you, little girl?" His condescension is blatant.

I hesitate. I can do nothing but answer honestly.

"You don't."

At this, his eyebrows raise a bit. He studies me further, looking me up and down. Sizing me up. It didn't take a genius to recognize I was basically miniature in comparison to him and that if I tried anything I might as well be digging my own grave.

The man removes his hand from his injury once more, testing it. He grinds his teeth together at the pain and claps his hand back over the gash.

"Very well. Lead the way." He grunts. I take it that he does not accept assistance from others often, nor does he enjoy doing so. In other words, he is stubborn.

Like me.

_Well, at least you have something in common,_ I say to myself. Even so, the life I had lived with my mother up until now taught me that two pig-headed people did not often end up being on the best terms. My mother and I were the prime example.

I sigh and begin the trek back towards the shop, battered man in tow.

"You haven't told me your name," I glance back at him.

"Because _you_ would not be able to pronounce it… Call me Connor. That is what everyone addresses me as now." He pauses. " And you?"

I tilt my head back a bit in order to make eye contact.

"Laura Avery," I smile, trying ever so slightly to smooth over our previously less-than-pleasant discourse.

He doesn't smile back.


	4. Eye Contact

**Reviews make me update faster~ **

**...**

"_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."_

I've drawn Cate out the back door of the store and into the alley with me, pleading for her to be as discreet as possible as to not let on that anything of significance is occurring to the employees inside. The last thing we needed was mother growing any more suspicious than she already was given my prolonged absence.

Cate's hand is covering her mouth, taking in Connor's crippled constitution. I've propped him against the crates, instructing him to rest for a moment. I can't tell if Cate is more shocked at the sight of his horribly disheveled appearance or the fact that she has an Indian in her backyard.

"Laura, why in heaven's name would you bring this poor thing to _me?"_ Her hand travels from her mouth to her chest, resting on her heart. "Do you have any idea who this man _is?" _Her last utterance catches me off inflection in her tone leads me to believe she knows more about Connor than what would be considered general knowledge of a vaguely portrayed criminal.

"You _know_ him?" I question. She gives me a sideways glance and clears her throat.

"Not personally, no. I'm sure you aren't ignorant of the fact that he is a desperately wanted man."

"Of course. There are papers with his face on them pasted on the front of your _store." _I press my fingertips to my cheek, beginning to worry again.

"He's more than a scoundrel, dear. He's fighting for the Patriot cause. The damn lobsterbacks would do just about anything to get their greasy hands on him." Cate's features mix, caught between intrigue and indecisiveness. Like me, she's not sure what to do.

"While we certainly cannot leave him outside, I don't think it's the best idea to have him come into the store either. The women, your _mother_, would have a heart attack at the sight of a Native man within the same four walls as themselves." Cate sighs, placing both hands on her hips. She turns to look me straight in the eyes. "Despite our limited interactions in the previous years, you know very well my stance concerning the war."

She pauses, and I nod. "Mother has kept me up to date on your, ahem, _strong beliefs."_

Cate rolls her eyes and continues. "I would be a turncoat if I didn't make an effort to help conceal him. Here," She rummages through her skirt's pocket, pulling out a brass key and placing it in the palm of my hand. "Go around the right side of the building. There should be a blanket covering a square-ish structure up against the wall; Those are the cellar doors. Take him down there. Judging by the condition he is in at the moment, he won't be in a good enough way to travel for at least another day or two. There are only a few chairs down there, but do your best to get him comfortable. I'll be down in a little while with a cot and hopefully some medical supplies."

I begin follow her instructions, but pause. "What about my mother?"

"What about her? Darling, I am not going to neglect to provide you with a sufficient cover. You needn't worry." Cate gives me a weary half smile.

"I've already been gone long enough for her suspicions to be piqued." I continue.

Cate snickers. "Trust me, love, I have this under control. I am one of the few people your mother actually listens to,"

I clutch the key in my hand tightly as Cate re-enters the store. I have the sense that what I've involved myself in is a lot bigger than what I initially thought.

I trudge over to Connor. "We're putting you in the cellar."

His eyes bore into me, sides of his mouth turned downward, brow furrowed. I gather that he is trying to tell me _no_ minus spoken words.

"We don't have a choice here, Connor." I'm unmoving, channeling my mother's overbearing persona.

"Do not treat me like a dog," His words drip with venom.

"That was not my intention."

"If that is the case, take care to monitor your articulation more carefully in the future lest your message be received incorrectly," He scoffs. I fold my arms in front of me and feel an involuntary frown tug on the sides of my mouth.

"I didn't have to go out of my way to help you, you know." I huff indignantly. I am quickly losing my cool.

"I had asked you to do no such thing to begin with."

"You would have died had I not come to rouse you,"

"That is unlikely."

"Oh, _please,"_ I guffaw. "You're burning up like the surface of the sun. Now come along, I'm not going to waste my energy bickering with an indolent sav-" I stop abruptly and mentally slap myself. I catch myself and gulp, trying to smooth over my accidental degradation.

If looks could kill, I would be long dead; His eyes are filled with fire, and I know I've instigated a rage so deep he doesn't dare let it escape. His self-control is truly astonishing.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say…" I stutter.

"Walk. Do not talk." He is practically growling.

I promptly clamp my mouth shut, infinitely embarrassed. I lead Connor around the building, locating the blanket Cate said would be present. I pull it off to uncover the shoddy cellar doors, proceeding to unlock them and carefully usher him down the steps.

The cellar is small and almost pitch black, save for the thin streams of light pouring in through the high windows facing out towards the street. I swat away the cobwebs brushing against my face and sticking to my hair.

"Sadly, there isn't much down here to make yourself comfortable with," I state. I glance back towards Connor, his bulky form half in the light and half in the dark.

I am struck by the tragedy etched in his features.

Not sadness, no; This is not a consciously formed expression; It just _is._ It is the physical manifestation of his aura. Naturally occurring, devoid of any sort of façade.

Despite their darkness, his eyes hold a certain glassy quality; Dreamlike, as if constantly looking forward to something that may or may not be there (and tortured by the possibility of the latter). He is a garden of contradictions: Infantile but seasoned. Halcyon but turbulent. Fire buried in ice. In this fleeting moment, he is as clear and unhindered as the rivers flowing freely in this strange new land, untainted by the avaricious vices of the common man. His strength, his struggle, is evident in his every feature. His every movement.

Connor stares at me as I stare at him.

Instantly, I feel my cheeks redden once I notice. I flick my eyes away and turn my back completely to him, clearing my throat.

"Once again, my apologies for not being able to provide the best conditions for-"

"It is fine." He interjects. The harshness from earlier has subsided, but I can still sense something of a strain in his words.

I gulp, not sure of what else to say. I feel Connor's eyes on me, prompting me to either move or speak.

I don't want him to think of me as an ignorant little girl, a privileged know-it-all, although I'm sure that is what he has accepted me as already. I think of my slip-up from earlier and feel a pang of guilt in my chest again. Mother has told me more than once that I should think before I speak; For once, I suppose she has a point.

"I'm sorry," I begin. "For before. And the circumstances of our meeting. I do not know much about you, but to say that I am concerned would be an understatement, and to chalk it up to fascination would be a stretch; I'm somewhere in between the two but despite either one I know I am ultimately afraid," I turn to face Connor directly. "I'm afraid of what's happened to you and what could possibly happen to me for having intervened in your predicament."

We lock eyes. His gaze is mostly rugged, all-consuming, with tinges of what seems to be protectiveness. I am surprised by this, but his words follow the message conveyed in his eyes.

"You need not worry. I will not allow anything to happen to you or your family." His voice is completely even; The sureness in his tone is almost comforting, but his words alone are as sharp as the jagged edges of a rock.

Our eyes do not leave each other's. I am searching his sentiment for faults, cracks, any determinant of falsehood in his statement; There are none.

I proceed to do something very unlike me: I trust him.

_I trust him,_ I think. Wholeheartedly and illogically. Devoid of reason. This wild man, hard as nails, covered in blood and strapped with weapons and a brazen disposition. Ready to mangle anyone who crossed him or his cause without a second thought.

Something told me I had just bitten off far more than I could chew.


	5. Sentimentality

**I'm hungover and I hate my life, so Happy New Year. Have another chapter, kids.**

…

Cate and I stand side by side, a faint tension hanging in the air.

It is now evening. Connor doesn't fit on the cot Cate has brought down, his feet dangling off the end. Yet, he's fast asleep the minute his head hits the pillow, leaving Cate and I standing in an awkward silence.

"A blizzard is coming. You won't be able to leave for home tonight," Cate doesn't look at me, her gaze instead focused on Connor's sleeping form.

I nod. "I haven't been up all day. What's it looking like outside?"

"Already a few inches on the ground, but the wind's picking up. Heavier flurries are beginning to come in." Her voice is riddled with concern, but I can tell it's not because of the bad weather.

"I can stay with him if you prefer-"

"No, you need to go upstairs with your mother. Her patience has worn thin," She crosses her arms in front of her, a look of contemplation drawn on her face.

Despite Cate's intense patriotism, I feel she shares the same fears as myself: The possible repercussions brought forth by taking in what was essentially one of the most wanted men in all the colonies. Still, she had a point. My mother was probably chomping at the bit to find out where I had been all day.

I begin up the stairs, but not before hugging Cate tightly, thanking her for all she had done.

She nods in return. "Don't thank me just yet." For the first time her musical tone has been replaced with something almost ominous.

…

Cate has no children.

As tragic as her inability to conceive is, the open rooms are convenient for having guests. Mother takes advantage of this mostly during the winter when traveling is too taxing for Paul, though it has been years since I myself have stayed a night in Boston. There are two unoccupied rooms above the store, aside from the master bedroom which belongs to Cate and her husband, David.

David was often out of town for business, much like tonight. If I had ever met him, it had to have been when I was very young. I couldn't remember his face for the life of me. I wondered if Cate ever grew lonely during his absences. And how would David react to coming home to find his wife nursing a big Indian man in their cellar? Did he share the same views as her? Would he know of Connor and his cause too? An enraged husband could do substantial damage, this I knew. Suddenly I had more to fear than redcoats bursting through the door and destroying everything. As if that alone wasn't enough.

I trudge up the stairs, a sudden exhaustion weighing on my every step. Coupling a severe emotional and physical fatigue, I feel ready to curl up on the staircase right here and sleep for a good two days.

Before I can proceed, Mother is on the landing above me, lantern in hand. She is already dressed in her ivory nightgown, hair in a long, loose braid flowing over her shoulder. I can't make out her expression in the darkness, but I sense she is studying me.

"Cate has kept you busy all day, I see." She's as stiff as ever. I only nod and continue up the stairs, our arms brushing. Before I can go any farther, I feel her light grip on my arm.

"What, pray tell, did she have you doing that seemed to consume all of your time today, Laura?"

I swallow, feeling my palms begin to sweat.

"I… Well, she had me in the cellar," Not exactly a lie, but the shakiness in my voice betrays me. Mother prods further.

"The cellar, now? Whatever could she have you down _there_ for?" Mother's tone is a mix of accusation and suspicion. I'm thankful for the lack of light, her inability to see my face is the only thing saving me from being completely given away.

"Um, she had me… Sorting out bolts of old fabric. A lot to go through, you know," I give Mother a sideways glance. Her eyes are on me, two smoldering holes shooting fire out of her head. She doesn't fully believe me but she lets up the hold on my arm.

"… You'd think she'd keep fabric in a different sort of storage than a moldy, damp cellar," She huffs. "I suppose I'll have to have a word with her about that. I find it hardly appropriate to have you down _there _all day," Her hand travels from my arm to my hair, twirling some loose tendrils between her fingers.

"Your hair is full of cobwebs." She frowns.

"I know," I sigh. She gives me a pitiful once-over.

"You'd best be off to bed, then,"

"Yes, mother."

…

I'm fairly sure it is at least 3 AM. I have yet to fall asleep.

My supposed exhaustion from earlier faded as I crawled into bed, my mind beginning to wander. Mother and Paul are in the room next to mine; It would make more sense for Paul and I to share a room, but Mother has trouble letting Paul leave her side to go to the bathroom, let alone stay in a separate room all night.

I'm grateful that there is a wall between us, though; I can breathe. Mother's presence always tends to put a strange heaviness on my chest, but I'm also happy to have a big bed all to myself.

I turn over onto my stomach, burying my face into my pillow. Finally! I can feel the sweet embrace of sleep begin to slither over my limbs, up the back of my neck…

The door opens.

I snap out of my half-awake state in an instant. Shooting up in bed, I jerk my head towards the door to find Cate standing on the threshold.

"I'm sorry to wake you, dear," She hesitates in the doorway. "But… He's asking for you."

I stare at her.

"What?"

"Connor. He's asking for you." She repeats.

I don't have time to be disbelieving. I hastily throw on a coat and scarf over my nightdress, then pull on my stockings and boots. I haven't a clue as to why Connor would be asking to see _me _of all people, but he is. I don't what else to do, to say, except see what he could want.

Cate and I make our way back down to the cellar, lanterns in hand. The wind outside is bitter and strong, ripping my hair free from my ponytail, blurring my vision with excessive amounts of flying snow. Cate and I hurry to unlock the cellar doors and scurry down the stairs.

Peeling away bits of damp hair plastered to my face, I glance over to Cate who motions for me to come to Connor's side.

I gasp at the sight of his state. "You didn't tell me his fever had gotten so bad,"

Beads of sweat are rolling down his face, his eyes shut tight and brow furrowed in pain. His teeth grit together, mumbling every so often. Sometimes in another language. I catch my name, ever so softly, a whisper on his lips.

"He's been like this for roughly an hour. I thought it would pass, but it has only grown worse," Cate crosses the floor to peer out one of the high windows. "I'd say we could wait until morning to fetch the apothecary, but I'm not too sure we'll be able to reach him in these conditions."

"I knew we should have called upon the doctor while we were still able to," I hiss. I crouch next to the cot, rewetting the folded cloth on Connor's forehead. I look over to Cate; Her arms are crossed in front of her protectively, but her eyes are drooping.

"Go to bed, Cate. I can handle this,"

I'd thought she would protest, but instead Cate gives me a grateful smile and nods.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me." And with that, she climbs the stairs and disappears to the surface and into the blizzard.

I'm on my knees beside Connor's anguished form. His face is still streaked with dirt and grime from the prior morning, so I wet another cloth and gently begin to wash his cheeks, his forehead.

Suddenly, Connor's eyes snap open. He grabs at me, his grasp nearly crushing as his fingers wrap completely around my small wrist. He turns his head towards me, breathing labored and eyes struggling to stay open.

"What… Hngh, what are you… Doing?" The fever is taking a massive toll on him despite his size and supposed strength.

"You're covered in filth," I manage as softly as I can.

To my surprise, Connor doesn't object.

I continue wiping at his face with his eyes on me. There is a benign light behind his gaze, almost soft but not completely. Yet, this is foreign to me; I've barely known this man for a day and presumed to think that he was incapable of emotion besides variants of irritation and anger… Perhaps I was wrong.

Connor's voice derails my train of thought. "You should leave this to Cate."

"She's very tired. She needs rest."

"A young lady and a man… Like _me_, alone in this setting," He coughs and clears his throat. "It is very improper."

I scoff. "Yes, but what of nurses who tend to wounded soldiers? They even have to deal with them _undressed."_

"You are not a nurse," He states dryly. "Besides, _you know what I mean."_

"You being native doesn't mean anything," I cut straight to his point.

"You certainly made it seem the opposite of such earlier," Connor's tone is not accusing, but I still feel a mixture of embarrassment and irritation well up in my throat.

"Quiet, I won't have you exhausting your stamina." I blatantly bypass the uncomfortable topic at hand.

For a few minutes, there is silence. I finish cleaning Connor's face and pull up a chair next to his cot beside his head. Once situated, the cellar is soundless save for Connor's heavy breathing.

His gruff voice shatters the quietude. "How old are you?"

"I just turned fifteen."

He sighs to himself. "Yes, this is _very _improper,"

I glower at him but his eyes are closed.

"How old are _you?"_ I ask, irritated.

"I am twenty."

"I see," I straighten up in my chair. "I had been under the impression that you were older."

"And why is that?" He inquires.

"The way you carry yourself and your manner of speech. You're very proud and… Articulate."

He pauses. "Thank you."

Connor's voice is soft, like his eyes earlier. Before I can stop myself my hand finds its way to his cheek, cupping it. He jumps at my touch, then cranes his neck to look back at me. I do not move my hand.

"Is this… All right?" My voice has lowered to whisper despite our being alone.

Connor stares at me as best as he can in his position. "In theory, no. But otherwise…" He harshly sucks in some air. "Yes."

At this, my body responds before my mind does. I shift in my seat and pull his pillow into my lap, followed by his head. He seems to be in just as much disbelief as I am at my unexpected actions.

Our eyes do not leave each other's.

"Sleep," I say, my voice barely audible in its whispered tenderness.

Connor lets his eyes slide shut slowly, sleepily. "My mother… She used to hold me when I was sick," He sighs, his voice airy. "Like this."

I can't help but let a small smile creep across my lips, unseen to him. Perhaps this beast had a gentle side after all.

Or, he was just a momma's boy.

I wish to continue this soft speak, but Connor is quickly drifting off into a lovely world of dreams and I dare not disturb him.

Minutes later, I find myself following suit, his head still cradled in my hands.


	6. Snowed In

**Um, well, it's been a while… Oops. But it's now summer, which means much more time on my hands, so expect some semi-consistent chapters! Thank you all for reviewing, doing so will make me update faster. I **_**promise.**_

…

Sunlight.

Waking thoughts: the familiar-yet-unfamiliar warmth in my lap from last night is gone.

My lids snap open and my body pitches forward. I catch myself, eyes beginning to scan the room. I'm violently alert, the harsh impact of awareness making my heart lurch with a brief anxiety. I clutch my middle and learn again what it is to breath.

"Are you all right?"

A distant voice brings me further into consciousness. I look up to find Connor on the other side of the cellar, crouched on the floor among a mess of what I assume to be his personal arsenal.

"I… What are you doing?" I ask as I rub my eyes groggily.

"Preparing to leave." He is curt and to the point. At this, I sit up straight and cock my head to the side, my brows furrowing.

"You do remember there was a blizzard last night, correct? The cellar doors are likely to be buried in snow."

He regards me exasperatedly. "Your point?"

"I doubt we'll be getting out until Cate comes for us."

Connor sighs and turns his attention back to his weapons. "You underestimate me."

I open my mouth to spew some kind of retort, but he's on his feet moving up the steps to the doors.

"Dear Lord," I take my head in my hands as Connor begins pounding the door. "You're going to wake all of Boston!"

"Unlikely."

I feel my voice go high in my throat. "Why must you always be so… So _contrary!"_

He ceases his relentless rattling of the door for a moment. I can feel my face beginning to redden. I sound like an angry little girl that is fussing over not getting her way. It seems embarrassing myself has become my new favorite hobby. Connor turns to face me, his features a mix of amusement and condescension, and even some of what seems to be annoyance. His expression only furthers my embarrassment and ensures that my cheeks turn an even deeper shade of raspberry.

"_I'm_ the contrary one?" He regards me dryly as I fix my gaze on the sporadic piles of dirt and dust upon the floor, clearly avoiding his heavy eyes. I will not afford him eye contact, the opportunity to intimidate me further with his oppressive stare.

I breathe in deeply. "You're always so disagreeable, it seems. I only wish… _We_ only wish to help you."

"Is it not evident that I am capable of caring for myself?" Connor's voice rises quickly, "Were the scars that permeate my body not a testament to the other injuries I have borne? The color of my skin the declaration of a struggle I have no control over? Or has your girlish ignorance already decided for you that I am a savage who could not possibly get on without the all-knowingness of your people? You do not know me, nor will I allow you the hazard of such any longer," Connor's enmity inflates against my supposed doubtfulness of him and I find myself quickly following suit.

"Have you ever _once_ ceased to think that the whole world opposes you?" I spit venomously.

"I have not, given that said opposition is mostly true." His blatant egotism has fluffed itself up and out completely. My fists clench the fabric of my skirt and I barrel forward, putting Connor and I breast to breast.

"You're the most supercilious specimen of a man I've ever come across! You're lucky we're snowed in or I would gladly have thrown you out onto the street for the redcoats to snatch up a long time ago!" I growl, but Connor regards me amusedly. I am dwarfed in front of him, having to turn my head almost completely upward to keep eye contact.

"Oh?" He scoffs, a lofty grin playing on his lips. "I am quite sure I weigh twice as much as you. However, good luck with that," Connor chuckles and ruffles my hair as if I am a child. I swat his hand away.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!"

"Why ever not, miss?" His tone is now low and mocking. "I am only treating you as the little girl you are most certainly acting like."

Needless to say, at this point I am absolutely irate. I cannot bear to look at Connor anymore. A strange rage rises inside of me, somehow coupled with a stifling vulnerability. I grit my teeth together and push past him, gliding up the stairs and putting both hands on the doors of the cellar but making no further movement. I can feel Connor's observant eyes on me from behind.

"What…?" He trails off.

"I don't know."

I feel my shoulders slump and my hands drop from the smooth wood of the doors to the cold cement of the stairs. I am not defeated, just supremely tired. Sleeping upright in a hard chair all night does not afford the most sufficient rest, after all.

I remain silent and unmoving for a few minutes, letting my eyes drift shut and planting my forehead on the cellar doors. I want out, and I want out now, but I refuse to let my anger boil over again. Instead of getting mad, I get worried. What time is it? The sun had already risen so it had to be at least eight o'clock. Mother is an early bird, always up when the stars are still bright in the dark sky. Of course, she would be wondering where I was to aid her in preparing breakfast. What was Cate thinking? This situation is sure to be my downfall; mother would never let me out of the house again.

"Ahem," Connor clears his throat whilst moving up the stairs towards me. He seats himself beside me, putting a good amount of space between us. I do not look at him.

"You are anxious." He states bluntly. He turns his head to face me fully, his tone softening. "… Do I frighten you?"

I stare at him.

Connor shifts his positioning a bit, growing noticeably uncomfortable. "I… Pardon me. I am in no place to ask…" Again, he trails off, letting his unfinished words drift off into the vacant air of the cellar.

"I am frightened," I say quickly, pushing the syllables out of my mouth like hot poison on my tongue. "You are something – _someone - _my world has advised me to fear, and thusly steer clear of. For as long as I can remember…" I realize it is now I who is trailing off, at a loss for words. I clench my hands together tightly in my lap, frustrated.

"I know," Connor's voice grows softer still. His eyes drop to my whitened knuckles nestled in my lap. "I… I understand… I am _trying _to understand."

Ever so lightly, his large hands cover mine.

It is not the suddenness of the action that makes my head snap up to face him, but the monumental security I feel as his rough, calloused hands encircle mine. I feel my lips inadvertently pulling into smile.

"It will suffice."


End file.
